Am I perfect or imperfect?
When I look at the mirror, I don’t see perfection or imperfection. All that I can see are nooks and corners of my body where my skin is milky soft, smooth, and unmarked, and there are other parts of me that look as though they have been engraved, as if it took thousands of minutes and a million seconds of great love and tragedy, laboriously made to carve this particular masterpiece.
In the inflammation, I see textures and colors, excess heat, bloating, inflamed patches of cracked, dry skin. These pieces of me weave a story yearning to be heard. The way my stomach folds and bulges ad the way I’ve pulled my pants up, shirt down, belly tucked in, trying with all my might to become flatter, smaller, less than Invisible.
I tried so hard to disappear. To erase what I was always told shouldn’t be there if I wanted to be utterly desirable, irresistibly sexy, genuinely beautiful, and indispensable. These voices are never truly given the permission to speak. Little spots of incompatibility that are parts of myself where the truth has yet to be fully liberated. I have learned to love these pieces of me that have been ignored that I tried so hard to desperately hide.
Acceptance is Perfection
I have had to learn to love my “stretch-marks.” They live as a reminder of the ways in
which I have had to stretch and expand to grow into the person I am today. I have learned to love my hair. And, not just the hair that cascades in explosive shock waves and curls down my head, neck, and back. The soft, silky, baby fur that runs down my inner thighs and dusts my legs. The coarse, unruly, wiry hair that erupts from my mound and fertile valleys. And, the stray hairs that now sprout unexpectedly in places for obvious reasons, were previously unwanted.
Always love Your Imperfection
Every mark, scar, blemish, and wrinkle. Everything that’s bulging, rippling, lopsided, crooked, discolored, and cracked prompts me to love myself. Every little imperfection is consistently reminding me that I am a living breathing organism, just like the earth itself. Unpredictable. Wild, Achingly beautiful, unquestionably alive.